


Unbroken

by mevima



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BDSM, Broken Bones, Frottage, Intimate Bone-Breaking, M/M, Rough Sex, extreme masochism, minor blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27601660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mevima/pseuds/mevima
Summary: Crowley is hiding a secret about what he wants during sex, and Aziraphale is determined to figure it out.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 110
Collections: Crowley's Demonic Side, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Unbroken

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Latromi, FeatheredSnake, and Cunzy4 for the beta!

It had taken Aziraphale some time to catch on.

In all fairness, Crowley had never given any indication that he was unhappy with their sex life. And perhaps he wasn't _unhappy,_ not in so many words, but Aziraphale was no longer convinced that the demon was _satisfied._

They'd had plenty of delightful romps over the centuries, falling into bed with one another more and more in moments of loneliness and weakness and pure, drunken lust. Sex with each other had been in turns simple, tender, exuberant, and creative, exploring the many ways these human bodies felt pleasure and excitement. But as their relationship gained steam, Aziraphale had begun to suspect that something was missing.

He doubted he would ever be able to explain why. Perhaps they were sharing more than just corporeal communication; perhaps he had caught a glimpse of the hunger boiling under the surface of Crowley's emotions. But Aziraphale began paying closer attention, trying to understand this strange certainty.

The first true inkling of it had come about by accident, when Aziraphale had lost his concentration and his balance, sinking his teeth into the meat of Crowley's shoulder much harder than intended. It had drawn not only blood but a surprised, strangled sound as Crowley jerked, coming so hard his thighs trembled against Aziraphale's sides.

The bruise from the unintentional bite had lasted for weeks. More than a few times, Aziraphale had caught Crowley brushing his fingers over the reminder.

Still, the concept didn't quite solidify until the night Crowley had come into the shop angry. He had glared the last customer out and wasted no time in dragging Aziraphale to bed. Too fast, too rough, Crowley had forced his own body open on Aziraphale's cock and moaned as he bled for it, never losing the frantic energy that drove him into a heartbeat-fast rhythm, wounded cries tearing out of him that sounded as lost as they were lustful.

Aziraphale had been too shocked to come, but Crowley certainly had – almost violently, loud and messy, without even Aziraphale's hand to help him along. Afterward, Crowley had gone quiet and attentive, cleaning Aziraphale's body with careful strokes, then giving him a long, luxurious orgasm using clever hands and a skillful tongue.

Later, Aziraphale had set aside time for quiet contemplation. He recalled their encounters, sexual and otherwise; considered their convoluted history; thought about who the demon was and what he wanted and why his eyes sometimes shone with a need that Aziraphale did not understand.

He considered the things that Crowley said, and the things that he avoided saying.

And Aziraphale, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, formed theories; and Aziraphale made a plan.

* * *

When Crowley saunters into the bookshop on a rainy evening, Aziraphale welcomes him with tea and a smile. He sits his friend and lover down on the old, comfortable couch, and makes small talk about their respective jobs until he feels Crowley's stress fade, washed away by the familiar surroundings.

It's only fair to allow him a moment of relaxation, since Aziraphale is about to raise that stress level right back up. Crowley never did take serious conversations with grace.

"So," Aziraphale starts delicately, setting his cup down on the side table. "There's something I've been wondering about our... bedroom activities."

Caught off guard but unconcerned, Crowley gives a short laugh. "You offering?"

"Mm. Not yet. A discussion first, my dear." Aziraphale's eyes are sharp. Crowley frowns, sensing something in the air, his hands twitching toward the sunglasses he'd left on the table just out of easy reach. When Aziraphale next speaks, it is an observation, not a question.

"You like it rough."

Crowley blinks, then scoffs. "Always have. What's your point?"

"I'm not talking about our normal activities, Crowley."

Aziraphale cocks his head, studying him, and Crowley squirms like a butterfly under that pinpoint attention. He swallows hard and glances away defensively. "Don't think I like where this conversation is going. Why don't we try this again tomorrow, I'll give you some space and you can forget I showed up at all today, I'll just – " He waves his hand aimlessly and stands from the couch.

A tight grip around his wrist stops him before he's taken two steps, and Crowley turns accusing eyes on Aziraphale's solemn face. "Seriously, angel?"

Wordlessly, Aziraphale squeezes, watching his demon's face closely as the vice closes. The grip becomes harsh, then painful, and Crowley's expression loosens. Bones grind together, and Crowley can't help it; his head tilts back, breath growing audible.

"You like it rough," Aziraphale repeats.

Crowley's eyes crack open. He forces out, "Yes."

"How rough?"

"Too rough." Crowley spits the words like they burn him, and he yanks his arm once, but Aziraphale's iron grip doesn't relent, drawing a whimper as Crowley's flesh compresses and his bones creak.

Aziraphale is immovable, immutable, a warrior of Heaven unwilling to give ground and quite ready to bully and chide Crowley into this conversation. It's too important to their relationship, too important to _Aziraphale_ that Crowley is happy, that he is satisfied. And his hunch seems to be proving correct; Crowley wants this, the familiar scent of arousal sharp in the air.

"Tell me," he says, voice low and enticing, a purposeful imitation of Crowley performing a temptation.

"Why?" Despite his obvious wariness, both of them are quite conscious that Crowley's other hand is free to snap, and he has done nothing more to pull away. "I'm a demon, Aziraphale. Depths of depravity and all that. I'm fucked up by definition, so why does it matter?"

Aziraphale purses his lips, as if the answer is obvious. "I want you to enjoy our time together."

"I do!"

"But you want more, and I am prepared to give it to you, if only you would trust me. I have put a great deal of thought into this, Crowley. I'm not unaware of what I am proposing."

Crowley pauses then. Looks like he is actually considering it.

"Tell me what you want. To bleed? To hurt? To be consumed? I'll give it to you, but only - " With a quick tug, the demon is caged in Aziraphale's arms, pinned in place by his wrist and the hand now grasping his jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. "Only if you tell me exactly what it is. I'll not break you if you don't ask."

Crowley sags in his grip, the submission written in every line of his body. "Careful, you'll ruin your angelic image," he objects weakly.

The implication comes through, and Aziraphale smiles, brushing a thumb over Crowley's lips, which part easily for him. "You should know that I have no objection to consensual violence, my dear." Crowley's breath slides shakily over his thumb. "I told you, I have given this great thought. Anything you ask for, Crowley. Just tell me," the thumb slides into Crowley's mouth and onto his tongue, pressing down firmly, making the demon pant, "and it will be yours."

"Fuck," Crowley garbles around the invading digit, and Aziraphale laughs, withdrawing it so he can speak. "You're fucking serious."

"Yes."

A few seconds of silence between them, then Aziraphale offers an olive branch. "Come, sit down." His grip eases, and Crowley obediently settles on the couch again. Aziraphale follows him down immediately, straddling his lap, and Crowley's eyes widen, nostrils flaring as he is suddenly caged in.

Aziraphale doesn't miss the hardness between his legs, and smiles in satisfaction.

"If you're not going to tell me... shall I guess?" the angel muses, his hands resting casually on Crowley's shoulders, stroking, gentling. "You liked it when I bit through your flesh and made you bleed."

With how close they are, it's impossible to hide the shiver that goes through Crowley's body. "Yes," he whispers.

Aziraphale leans in closer, pressing a kiss to Crowley's jaw in reward. Closer to his demon's ear, he murmurs, "You liked it when you were forced open on my cock. You bled then, too."

The whine that draws is audible, shaky, and Crowley's chin lifts, offering the sweet expanse of his neck. "You can't just say – say – " he stutters, and gasps when Aziraphale's teeth scrape over his skin.

"Cock?" Aziraphale offers with a grin. Crowley just moans softly. "If we're going to have this discussion, I must be blunt, mustn't I?" He sits up but scoots forward, pressing their hips together to make sure he can feel every reaction in Crowley's oh-so-tight pants while he watches the demon's face.

"So you like to bleed," Aziraphale continues. "You like pain. What kind of pain? Sharp?" His left hand slides down Crowley's arm, vanishing his jacket along the way, until he reaches the delicate flesh of his inner elbow. The sudden pinch makes Crowley jump, then nod jerkily.

"What about my fingernails? Or knives?" This time, the rake of Aziraphale's nails back up his arm draws a loud moan, Crowley's head falling back against the couch.

He waits for an answer before continuing, and isn't disappointed. "Yeah," Crowley pants, twitching under him as if he doesn't know which direction to go. "That was... that was good. Knives... yeah."

"Thank you, darling," Aziraphale says warmly, and slides his curled hand back down hard, deepening the furrows he's already made in Crowley's arm. The demon arches up with a high noise, hips lifting in a helpless grind.

There are other options, though, and Aziraphale has read diligently about them all – as well as considering options beyond human ability. He closes his hand around Crowley's wounded arm, relishing his sharp inhale, and keeps pressing. "Shall I fill you with Grace, or play with your wings?" Crowley's eyes go wide and he freezes. Both options, Aziraphale files away for later exploration.

"What about heat? Branding, burning – " But Crowley has already grimaced, shrinking back into the couch, and Aziraphale cuts himself off. "Perhaps not."

"Sorry," Crowley mutters.

Aziraphale blinks, honestly surprised by the reaction. "Sorry? Whatever for?"

"For not – you know." Crowley gestures vaguely, and offers Aziraphale an unconvincing smile. "Sorry to disappoint?"

"This is for _you,_ you stubborn demon," Aziraphale huffs, tapping him sharply on the nose. He ignores Crowley's offended squawk. "I don't _want_ to brand you, I want to know what will make you come so hard you'll pass out."

That, at least, seems to have left Crowley speechless, his rapid pulse visible in the tempting flesh of his neck. Aziraphale smirks slyly. "Yes, just like that."

The way Crowley reacts to his bold words is a temptation quite impossible to resist. Aziraphale gentles his hold on Crowley's arm and brushes his knuckles over those thin lips. "Moving on. Impact? It's quite popular with the humans. I could flog you, whip you, cane you... shall I go further? Yes?" Their hips this close, the jump of Crowley's cock is unmistakable, so Aziraphale leans in to whisper the next in his ear. "Throw you against the wall. Knock the breath out of you. Slap your face." Crowley moans at the last, and Aziraphale nips his ear in reward.

"I could flay you," the angel muses, testing the waters. A tremble, but no more. Promising. "Bind you, have you at my mercy – " Crowley jerks against him, panting now – "draw blood with my hands and my teeth. I'll make a mess of you, dear Crowley, positively _smeared_ with it, and then I'll take my pleasure of you any way I like."

"Please," Crowley chokes out. Aziraphale draws back enough to see the glazed look on his face, the helpless, ragged breaths, and the way Crowley strains after him to keep their closeness. "Please," Crowley whispers again, hoarse. "Yes. All that. Yes. Break me, angel."

A shudder passes through Aziraphale's body. He hadn't expected this to thrill him quite so much, had expected at most to take pleasure from his lover's enjoyment, but the way Crowley reacts is... intoxicating. He finds he _wants_ to hurt Crowley, wants to break him down and build him up again. The power of this exchange, freely given and casually vicious, thrums through his hips and out his fingertips.

Aziraphale _growls._

Crowley whines.

One more little taste of consent, that's what Aziraphale wants. One more concession to his own conscience – and it doesn't hurt that Crowley will have to struggle to answer.

"Break you _how,_ darling? What do you want most? What have I missed?" He grinds his hips down as he hisses the words into Crowley's ear, feels the demon's rough breathing, his rapid pulse.

"I – ah – bones." It's hardly audible, the words obviously yanked unwilling from Crowley's throat. He doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to admit the desires he's hidden from Aziraphale all these centuries, but the angel has him under his thrall now; Crowley cannot hold back.

"Bones?" Aziraphale encourages, again finding the wounds on Crowley's arm, pressing his manicured nails in just enough to be threatening.

A sharp intake of breath, and Crowley manages, "Yes, break... just..." He's still struggling with the words, the request, this thing which he thinks makes him so demonic and wrong that he doesn't wish to show it to his angel. To help him along, Aziraphale wraps his hand purposefully around the already-damaged flesh of Crowley's arm and _squeezes,_ harder and harder, until Crowley's other hand lifts in half-protest and he yelps, " _Yes!_ Break it, please, just – once – just one, I'm sorry, it's awful but you wanted to know and I can't – hide from – angel, ngh!"

Broken bones are perhaps a bit further than Aziraphale had planned to go, but it only takes a moment of thought to realize that he's not averse. Not with Crowley begging so prettily for it, flushed all the way down his chest and his arousal a solid, tangible presence between them. Not with healing just a miracle and an apology away.

With a human, he would have hesitated, likely refused entirely.

With Crowley, it's all too easy.

There is one large bone in the upper arm, surrounded and supported by muscle, sinew, fat, and flesh. And none of this makes much difference to angelic strength; pressure applied just so, a twist and a squeeze and a _snap –_

Crowley howls, and for a chilling moment Aziraphale regrets what he's done, scrambles to think of the fastest way to fix this grievous mistake. But the howl ends in a panting sob and Crowley's other hand tugs him urgently into a sharp, messy kiss, a clash of teeth and noise that the demon can't quite seem to control.

The bone is quite definitely broken under Aziraphale's hand, though not separated, and as soon as Crowley gets his bearings back, the _bone_ between them is pressed up against Aziraphale's own in frantic little jerks of the demon's hips. Aziraphale soothes him, murmurs nonsense into his whining, whimpering mouth, and plants his knee in the couch to give Crowley as much friction and heat as he wants to take.

Aziraphale bites down on Crowley's lower lip until he feels it give under his teeth; his right hand slides behind Crowley's back to pull him closer; his left twists, and shifts the broken bone inside abused flesh.

Crowley stiffens, whimpers, and comes, sweaty and wild-eyed.

As Crowley falls apart in his arms, all strangled noises and uncontrolled heat, Aziraphale is fascinated and horrified in equal measures by how much he likes this. He'd always found Crowley's orgasm gorgeous, and causing it intoxicating, but this is profoundly different. It's heady and intense, stirring something dark in Aziraphale's gut that leaves him _yearning_ to make Crowley writhe in agony again.

He's surprised to find, as well, that the erection he's sporting is an afterthought, nothing he feels the need to take care of. All of Aziraphale's focus is on the way Crowley trembles and pants, the dazed look in his eyes as his body begins to relax into a post-orgasmic haze.

"Fuck," is all Crowley says. Then he moves slightly, and winces at the pull in his arm.

"Oh! Just a moment." It's over, there's no reason for Crowley to remain injured, and Aziraphale immediately summons a healing miracle, knitting the bone back together and calming the inflamed muscles.

Crowley's expression smooths over, becoming something loose and simply tired, and he raises his eyebrows with a sex-drunk grin. "Can't believe you did that, angel. Not very angelic of you."

"No?" Aziraphale says quietly, carefully pushing hair off of Crowley's face, tracing his cheekbone delicately. "Then why do I want to do it again?"

All of Crowley's breath leaves him in a rush, and Aziraphale hums in satisfaction.


End file.
